


on the path that leads to nowhere

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Rating May Change, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S4B AU: Carl escapes the prison with Daryl, instead of Rick. Their lives are irreversibly changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the poem, 'The Path That Leads to Nowhere' by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson.  
> \--
> 
> I ship Daryl/Carol and Rick/Carl like crazy and yet the idea of Daryl and Carl stuck without any other support after the prison _would not leave me alone_. And I tried to reason with myself but instead... here we are.

There was so much noise and confusion; the prison over-run with walkers, human enemies mixed between them, still shooting at them as though Carl and his family were somehow worse than the undead. How had the Governor had managed this - to convince a whole new bunch of people he was worth following? Carl had no time to assess the situation, potentially deadly threats closing in on every side, and yet useless thoughts like that still flickered in the depths of his brain. He blocked them all out, focusing only on the death and destruction all around him, adrenaline coursing through his veins, terror dictating his every movement.

He had to find his father; Rick had been down by the fences out in the open with little cover, and Carl needed to get to him, needed to save him - but the way was too heavily blocked and Daryl was ordering him to _move_.

Carl had spent too many years reacting instinctively under pressure; following orders, gunning down walkers and then humans too, shoving the fear down, crushed under the weight of his will to survive. He followed Daryl’s lead because he had no choice. His brain was shutting off anything but the reactions he needed to live. And Carl trusted Daryl like he trusted the sun to keep rising; the same way he trusted his father.

The archer threw a grenade into the barrel of the tank’s giant gun and they swerved aside when it tore apart in shards of flaming metal and fire. Then Carl’s feet were leading him toward where the children should be - he had to find Judith, he had to save her, at least.

But he was already too late. When he saw her baby seat, bloodstained and empty, it was as if his very soul shattered. Every part of him seized in disbelief, grief tearing through him, cracking open his ribs till his bloody and broken heart was on display for all to see. He wasn’t aware of gunning down the next walker in his path; couldn’t hear the sounds of his own screams; the world narrowed to the weight of Daryl’s rough fingers on his arms, dragging him away as the pain swallowed him whole.

-

They ran until they could run no more. If there had been anyone left to hear it, Carl would not have been able to describe the journey out of the prison and into the open farmland. It was a blur of nothingness until he came alive, lying face-up in the grass, panting from the exhaustion, his muscles screaming in protest of their frantic scramble to get free. Daryl was beside him, but Carl barely noted his presence, too aware of everyone who should have been with them, and wasn’t. Dad and Judith and Michonne and... all gone. All dead.

He wasn’t aware of the bile rising in his throat, but his body was, and he rolled instinctively and emptied his stomach into the green, green grass, feeling the acid of his stomach juices burning his throat all the way up. It was all gone, and Carl would never see his father again. Both his parents were dead; he was an orphan in a world of orphans, and there was no one left who knew what he was Before. Who he might have been, if the world hadn’t gone to shit.

Carl spat, willing himself to ignore the taste of vomit in his mouth. He would allow himself this one day. One day to grieve and remember; to be a son and brother and friend.

He knew there was only one path to take here on in, if he wanted to survive. If there was a tomorrow, and another tomorrow after that, he had to be the monster he knew he truly was inside. Let out the darkness that was crawling beneath his skin. Farmer Carl wouldn’t be able to fight. Little Lost Boy Carl would be torn to pieces.

But Carl Grimes; the killer? Ruthless and cold and remorseless... _he_ would make it. He would beat this world.

Now all he had to decide was whether or not he actually wanted to live at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Carl woke quickly, with a burst of energy in his limbs, nothing like his reluctant grumblings when his father would come into his cell, when the sky was still pitch black and he had to shake himself awake. He isn't given the luxury of a momentary reprieve; like so many mornings when he'd forgotten, just for a minute, that his mother had died. The knowledge of all that he'd lost was clear and stark the instant he opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling, grotty and dark with age.

Amongst all the anger that erupts, bright and white-hot, he knows, somewhere deep inside of him, that his father, at least, survived the slaughter. It would take more than an armed attack and a hoard to take down Rick Grimes; Carl was suddenly sure of it. Which meant Rick was out there, somewhere in the rolling fields of Georgia, possibly injured, maybe alone, but definitely looking for Carl.

Rage was an old friend as it rose up to greet him. This was _Rick's fault_. He'd had them playing farmer, when the Governor was out there, gathering an army. He'd had them all going soft, coddling the children, pretending that they weren't completely surrounded by enemies of the living variety every time they stepped out of the gates. Making them _weak_.

Carl wanted nothing more than to scream at him:  _you did this!_  Your stupidity let them die and now I might never see you again. You. did. this.

But yelling wasn't an indulgence Carl could afford any more. Who knew what was out there in the dark? And it was still dark; that gloomy blue-grey of early morning. There was no use trying to get back to sleep, so he rolled over, unsurprised to see Daryl on watch, slumped against the wall. His face was half in shadow. The faithful crossbow was between his outstretched legs, and the sight of it made something bittersweet in Carl's stomach twist. He'd wanted to learn how to use it for years; finally, at the prison, it seemed he'd get the chance to. But it was pretty unlikely that they'd find somewhere safe for target practice now.

The only way he'd get to use it was if Daryl died and he prized the bow from his cold hard fingers. Carl pushed away the horrifically morbid thought as soon as it arose. He didn't want to even consider that possibility, as foolish as that made him. Daryl was all he had left. All the family he had. He wouldn't lose him too; he refused.

"I'll take over. You should sleep." Carl said, clipped and to the point.

Daryl didn't argue; maybe it was a sign of trust, or maybe he was just too drained. Carl wanted to believe it wasn't because he was too busy entertaining dark thoughts. It was all too easy to say 'why bother fighting the inevitable?', but Carl was doing his best not to give into that. Nothing good lay down that road.

There hadn't been many supplies in the little shack they'd found, but there were a few ratty blankets, that he pushed aside to let Daryl fall into. He stepped aside, expecting the older man to just take his empty space, but instead he found himself with a bundle of denim under his nose. Daryl had taken off his jacket, the one he'd been wearing underneath his sleeveless cut-off.

"Thanks." Carl whispered, pulling on the worn, stressed fabric. It draped off his smaller form, so much so that he had to flap the two halves over one another and tuck them into the front of his jeans, in order to keep hold of Daryl's lingering warmth.

Significantly warmer, Carl curled up beside the boarded up windows, hugging his knees, and listened for the tell-tale hiss of walkers.

-

Carl let Daryl sleep in probably longer than he should have. They had to get moving; he knew that. They had scant supplies and no food. But the moment they stepped out of the shack, he knew it would be real in a way that it hadn't been the night before. As long as they were holed up here, like foxes in a den, he could pretend they were just on a run, a temporary excursion, and that their family was out there, not all that far away, safe in the prison. He just wanted to keep that dream alive for a little longer; just a little while longer.

He didn't even feel the tears on his face until they dripped off his chin; one, two, three. A stupid waste of water. He rubbed the evidence away, flush with shame at such an obvious sign of vulnerability. He wasn't a child any more. People died. He knew that. People did stupid things, and then they died, and came back as walkers if they weren't dealt with.

There was no permanent safety; no painless afterlife either. There was just the fight to survive, today and tomorrow and every day after that. And as he watched the perfect clouds roll through the bold blue sky, Carl promised himself he would never lose sight of those facts again.

-

The air was crisp and almost clean when they left the shack. They'd found two tins of food, but nothing else really worth taking. The weather was still warm, but the leaves were turning and soon winter would be nipping at their heels. They had no choice but to take the mangy old blankets with them, for the extra warmth and protection they would provide, meagre though they were.

They trudged onwards, down a deserted road, no destination in mind or plan to follow. When Carl suggested that maybe there were others that got out, Daryl wasn't shy about shutting him down.

"We can't go back. We got no way of knowing which direction they was headin'." he said, his stride not faltering for even a step.

Carl had pressed his lips together in annoyance, but he didn't dispute the words. They could end up walking in circles, getting trapped by the hoards which were attracted to the noise at the prison - or maybe even run into their living attackers. Daryl was right. They had to keep moving. It didn't mean Carl had to like it though.

"My Dad will have made it. And Michonne, too, I think." Carl said, more for the comfort of noise than any real attempt to get a conversation going. "Maybe they found each other."

Daryl didn't say anything for such a long time that Carl was quite startled when the other man whispered; "Maybe."


End file.
